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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27276307">pick your bones like locks</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeColoredMornings/pseuds/JohnnysFrenchPress'>JohnnysFrenchPress (CoffeeColoredMornings)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Anal Sex, Demons, Eventual Smut, Gay Sex, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Horror, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:10:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27276307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeColoredMornings/pseuds/JohnnysFrenchPress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just an old house, he thinks, it's still settling just like us. He repeats this mantra so it becomes an engraved pathway in his mind, a truth that sinks into his bones. It's just an old house. The TV flickers, a glitch of color seizing on the screen before black and white lines take over. Johnny curses. Far off, thunder rumbles like an approaching beast. It's just an old house and bad weather—nothing more.</p><p>**<br/>Or: It's more than just an old house and bad weather.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Taeyong/Suh Youngho | Johnny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Ghouls Ghosts and Johnyong</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pick your bones like locks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Chapter title from: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_v041EwZLkQ">Slipknot - Solway Firth</a><br/>** Johnyong Manito Prompt**</p><p>when the company sends johnny abroad for work, he decides to bring his husband taeyong along to a new town, where they move into an old, decent looking house. it's then that they experience bizarre happenings in the safe of their own home.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The heat is too pervasive for mid-September, it sticks to Taeyong's skin as he heaves yet another box into the dark foyer of their new home. Johnny follows him inside, arms bulging underneath the weight of the stacked boxes in his arms. They're both sweating, having long shed their morning sweaters for plain undershirts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You want these in the kitchen?" Johnny asks, hours of exertion weakening his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong checks the boxes, see the spindly lines of his writing in stark black Sharpie marking the contents as '<strong>FRAGILE</strong>'. "Yes, please. On the island, if there's still room."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny grunts out an affirmative and the long hallway swallows him up as he heads to their kitchen. Sandwiching himself between a tower of boxes and the wall, Taeyong allows the group of movers to pass him by with the last of their things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The baritone of Johnny's voice floats through the house, talking with the movers and thanking them for their work. The group of men wander back into the foyer, a huskier man gripping Johnny's hand in a firm handshake. The thick and snappy drawl of the New Orleans dialect is still puzzling the Taeyong's ears, he can pick up the basic flow of the conversation—pleasant business minutiae.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last exchanges of goodbye and y'all are given before the large oak door thunks shut and the dim of their new home sets in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Firm arms slip around Taeyong's waist, and the hot press of Johnny's body lays on his back. "You good?" The words are soft, nuzzled into the tender spot just behind Taeyong's ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's hot, and they're sticky with sweat, and Taeyong has been fantasizing about the large clawfoot bathtub in their bathroom for the past hour; yet, he sinks into his husband's embrace, damp cotton t-shirt clinging to his back. "Tired," Taeyong says, words hanging heavy on his tongue. "Want a bath."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny's huff of laughter stirs the baby hairs along his neck. Neither of them make a move, simply settle more into their bones and their embrace in the yawning foyer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had moved into the old Greek revival a week ago with nothing more than a back aching blow-up mattress and the bare necessities. The week has been a daily influx of activity as they purchase new furniture and slowly fill the new house. Today, the stuff they had purchased in Chicago during their brief stay with Johnny's parents finally arrived. While Taeyong is happy to have his kitchen supplies—a must for his job—he's dreading yet another evening spent bent over boxes and recleaning the dust that seems to cling to every surface no matter the amount of cleaner taken to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny presses a soft kiss to the side of his neck, letting his lips linger on the smooth skin. He begins to rock them, a gentle swaying that has the worn wooden floorboards creaking underneath them. (</span>
  <em>
    <span>They're the original floorboards</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the realtor had told them, bright red lips splitting on a Colgate smile, </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly a rare find in a house this old</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Taeyong had stared at the well-used floor and the polished stiletto heels of their realtor, and the trail of thin scuff marks dragging after her heels as she had beckoned them to the recently updated kitchen.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We need to buff the floorboards soon," Taeyong says. There is a seemingly never-ending list of things they need to do soon running through his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll call someone tomorrow morning." Johnny's voice floats smoothly like honey-sweetened tea. "Don't worry about that."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small smile curls at the edges of Taeyong's lips and he allows himself a moment to close his eyes, trying to imagine the creaking house with the modern kitchen as home. He opens his eyes to see boxes and lights in desperate need of higher watt-bulbs and scuffed floorboards and dated wallpaper in dizzying, faded floral arrays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll call in some dinner, yeah?" Johnny says and presses one last kiss to his temple. "Why don't you go draw us a bath?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No more gumbo, please," Taeyong asks. While enjoyable the first few nights, there's only so many types of gumbo he can eat before his stomach revolts at the very thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Pizza?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That's fine, extra sauce, please," Taeyong calls down the hall, already ambling to their large bathroom at the back of the house. "Oh, and the cinnamon things, if they have them."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Got it!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong's thank you comes in the form of pouring a generous amount of Johnny's favorite eucalyptus and mint bath salts into the warm running water. Though not quite home yet, the upgraded amenities in the kitchen, laundry room, and main bathroom, definitely pulled Taeyong in. The clawfoot tub is something he could never hope to find in their old Seoul apartment, and though they've only settled in for a week, Taeyong and Johnny have both taken advantage of this small luxury.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Undressing slowly, Taeyong breathes in the rising mist from the tub. Feels the unclenching of his muscles as he eases into the hot water, skin quickly coloring red.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only a few moments pass before Johnny shuffles in. Lazily, Taeyong watches the larger man undress over the porcelain lip of the tub. His golden skin, his flush from the work of the day, and the beating of the southern sun. His muscles ripple and shift, and Taeyong can't help licking his lips as he slides forward and lets Johnny slip in behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Got the pizza?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"And the cinnamon buns." Johnny releases a pent up sigh, and Taeyong rises and falls with the movement of his chest. "Thank you, baby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong hums, something deep and throaty and—at least for the moment—fully content. He knows the gratitude is more than for the bath salts, more than for this current moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Johnny had broached the topic nearly five months ago of a huge opportunity his job was offering him, Taeyong had been ecstatic. The enthusiasm had waned slowly as the reality set in that they'd have to move to America, leaving behind family and friends (and Taeyong's carefully cultivated fish tank—now in the caring hands of his best friend, Doyoung). Just as draining was the month-long separation between them, Johnny having flown over earlier to finalize receiving his architecture licenses for Louisiana and begin the house hunt before Taeyong flew over after wrapping up the odds and ends of life as they had known it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet, they did it. They made the move. Now Taeyong has a claw-footed bathtub, a large, modern kitchen perfect for filming his cooking videos and practicing new recipes for his blog, and a small upstairs space to call his office for video editing and any other creative endeavor his mind sets on. It's more than they had in Korea, and Taeyong knows that eventually this ache he feels will go away, but for now, he still misses home.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Your jambalaya video is doing well," Johnny says. The steam from his second cup of coffee is coiling around his jaw. "You're still set on trying to bake your own beignets?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm trying," Taeyong sighs. The morning is dim, yet another storm brewing on the horizon. His kitchen is bright, lovingly accented with soft blues and striking greens and potted herbs crawling down one full wall. "I feel like the dough consistency is still wrong. I want to go back to Cafe du Mont, but the wait," Taeyong groans at the hours of waiting spent for a cup of coffee and a decidedly delicious French pastry. "I don't want to wait." He's pouting now, he knows he is, but he's been trying to match the perfect doughy, flakiness of the pastry for a new video.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You'll get it, Yong," Johnny soothes. "Even if it's not perfect, I am sure it'll be wonderful." He stands, crisply ironed button-down clinging to his torso and pleated slacks hugging his hips and thighs. Taeyong shudders and it's not from the morning chill. "In fact, I know they're wonderful because you've been feeding them to me for two weeks and I barely fit into my pants this morning."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Bullshit," Taeyong laughs and accepts Johnny's kiss as he puts his mug in the sink. "You look good in those pants and you know it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mmm," Johnny muses, lower lip pushing out into a faux frown. "Feeling a bit flabby."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Really?" Taeyong moves in closer to where Johnny is leaning against their island. "I think I may know of a way to burn off the excess carbs."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Do you now?" Johnny's smirk is muted, not quite reaching its full teasing potential, but he pulls Taeyong further into his space, large hands curling around a thin waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong hums an affirmative and walks his hands over Johnny's stomach. Each defined bump of Johnny's hard-earned abs stark against Taeyong's fingertips. Standing on his tip-toes, Taeyong locks his arms around Johnny's neck, basking in the warmth of the firm body pressed against him and the slow steeping of warmth in his veins and lower stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first press of their lips is unhurried, a careful slide of slightly chapped lips. When Taeyong whines for more, Johnny provides. Taeyong unfurls beneath the touch of Johnny's tongue and the hands coasting up and down his sides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moan shudders out of Taeyong and the warmth in his stomach grows into a proper heat, lapping flames on his insides. He rocks forward and is gratified by the hardness in Johnny's pants, thick cock pushing at the teeth of his zipper. Taeyong curls forward, a silent seeking for more, and it's so familiar, the desire building between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A perk Taeyong hadn't thought of when making a bid for the house is the lack of ears pressing against their walls, their next-door neighbors spaced far apart with overgrown sugarcane fields separating them and tumbling woodland the only thing at their backs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong has been making good use of the lack of peeping eyes and ears to be as loud as his desire dictates. And their desire has been dictating often enough, slotting itself between continuous unpacking, business meetings for Johnny, and jaunty explorations into New Orleans proper and their small bordering town, Johnny and Taeyong have been making good use of every flat surface of the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whine wells up in Taeyong's throat as Johnny sucks on his tongue, big hands groping at Taeyong's small, pert ass. The crash that shatters throughout the kitchen turns the moan into a startled scream. Ripping away from each other, Taeyong throws a quick glance out the window only to see the gray clouds still building their wrath in the sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck," Johnny breathes. "That scared the shit out of me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smashed on the newly buffed and polished floor in messy pieces of cream ceramic and dark dirt is Taeyong's rosemary, the narrow leaves plucked from their stem. "How," Taeyong starts, walking toward the broken pot before Johnny pulls him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're barefoot, baby. Let me clean this up."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong nods, mind still foggy from the abrupt interruption. Johnny fetches their broom and dustpan. Outside the sky finally opens and the rain pours, tapping at the window panes over their sink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bristles of the broom brush against the floors with a light scrape. The worry of the ceramic pieces scraping the floor pings in the back of Taeyong's mind, but a more prevalent concern has him stepping closer, heedless to Johnny's puttering over Taeyong's bare feet and sharp shards not yet cleaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How did it fall?" Taeyong asks. The shelves are sturdy—he and Johnny had made sure of that when they spent the afternoon creating this wall for Taeyong to grow his own herbs. The plants all sit still and tidy in their sprawl of green, each pot pushed back into the wall with a conscious awareness of the ledge of each shelf. "There's no way that fell on its own."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Can you get me a wet paper towel?" Johnny asks. Taeyong stares at the empty spot where his rosemary once sat. "Taeyong, baby," Taeyong startles, large wide eyes fixing on Johnny. "Wet paper towel?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right," Taeyong laughs or tries to laugh as if the wheezing puff of air can pass for laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sure we must've not pushed it back enough after watering it," Johnny says over the running of the faucet. "Nothing to be spooked about."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Right," Taeyong repeats and hands Johnny the wet towel, a dry towel on standby in his hand. "That must've been it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sure it was." Johnny raises his hand for the dry paper towel and Taeyong passes it onto him. "We'll just have to remember to push them back after we take them off the shelf." Johnny finally rises from the ground, throwing the paper towels into the trash can now full of soil, ceramic, and broken rosemary. "Shit," Johnny hisses, pushing a strand of slicked-back hair that escaped the hold of his pomade. "Fuck, babe, I gotta go, I'm running late."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hard kiss is pressed to Taeyong's lips and Johnny leaves with a squeeze to his hip and an 'I love you' thrown over his shoulder. The reminder to bring an umbrella sits unspoken on his tongue as the front door slams shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The morning passes under a deluge of rain. Taeyong slips into his house slippers. He takes each plant down, gives a measured sprinkling of water, and prunes the dying bits. With deliberate intention, Taeyong pushes each potted plant snugly into the wall, keeping a careful eye on the distance between the edge of the pots and the ledge of the shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Early afternoon rolls in with a rumble of thunder. There is a plate of steamed sweet potatoes cooling on the island before him. Shadows tuck into the corners of the kitchen and the herbs lining the wall have not moved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong's phone buzzes and Johnny's name lights up.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>From: Papa Bear</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>October 2</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>12:17 p.m.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May run a bit late tonight.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[1 attachment]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But I did get you a new rosemary plant. Pot is kinda ugly, but we can fix that later. Love you! ;)</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a little man swinging a sledgehammer against the side of his head. At least, that's what it feels like. He sighs and stares blankly at the muted television, the forecast announcing another week of clouds and rain. He should be paying attention to the tinny voice buzzing in his ear, its owner a local electrician. He should be, but he can barely understand the cadence of the man's accent, quick and full in some places then elongated and a dragging drawl on the vowels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry," Taeyong says, voice weak even to his own ears. "Can you—can you repeat, please?" He's asked the man to repeat every other sentence and he can hear the growing frustration in the bite of the man's tone as he reiterates his upcoming availability and rates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What'd you say needed fixin' again?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The lights—they flicker and they're," Taeyong pauses, trying to conjure the English words that are escaping him (they seem to always escape him when he needs them most). "Not bright, should be brighter. In the kitchen...when I—when I use stuff, they stop working."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Alrighty, sounds like we may need to check your breakers and see what you're wiring looks like; we'll also take a look at the outlets, just to make sure they're fully up to code."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong nods, not that the man can see him. He's not sure what half of what the man said means, but his brain feels as static as his TV is—a harsh flickering of interference tearing through the latest murder highlight on the morning news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A warm hand settling on his shoulder startles him. The electrician is rattling numbers that hold no meaning in his ear. Johnny is above him, hair still dripping from his shower, a fluffy towel wrapped securely around his waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong pouts. It's a deliberate move on his end, lips pushed out and eyes widening just a bit to be both endearing and pathetic. Silently, he holds his cellphone out to Johnny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's this?" Johnny takes the phone, even before Taeyong answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Electrician. I tried telling him what's been going on with the lights and the electricity in the kitchen, but I'm not sure if he understood or if what he's selling is what we need."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny's voice deepens and firms up on his constants as he takes over the conversation. English comes to his lips naturally and he hashes out the details of their issues. His hand, large and strong, rubs soothing circles against the base of Taeyong's neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost Pavlovian, Taeyong falls into Johnny's touch and his eyes flutter shut. His eyelids are heavy and he knows the skin beneath his eyes feels too tight, the beginnings of dark bruises staining deep shadows. Sleep has been hard to come by, not that sleep has ever been easy for Taeyong to grasp, but the new house seems to never settle into a peaceful silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's an old house</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Johnny says when Taeyong brings up the sounds that rise in the night, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it's just settling and I imagine the recent storms don't help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And Taeyong nods and lets the conversation drop, because what else can he say? </span>
  <em>
    <span>You're not home all the time, you don't hear the doors opening and the footsteps in the hall.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is, Johnny isn't home as much as they'd both like for him to me. His new project having him spend a few nights a week in the city proper. Taeyong doesn't mind being alone, not really. Sleep is just harder to come without Johnny's warmth seeping into his thin limbs, without the thick banding of his arm around his waist. And this house, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this house</span>
  </em>
  <span>, is never still and never silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is, it may all be the storms and a house nearly two-hundred years old settling into its ever-shifting joints and foundations. The truth is, Taeyong doesn't know if there are drafts the pulls doors open and shut, if the plumbing groans and thumps against the walls, if the whisper too quick to make out is really the whoosh of wind and the tickling of overgrown tree branches tickling the glass of their windows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is, Taeyong doesn't know what's real and he doesn't care to check. He just wants to sleep. He wants the electricity to work so he can work on new recipes and film new cooking videos for YouTube without his stand mixer shutting down five minutes in or his immersion blender sputtering into messy starts and stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny's fingers run through his hair, fingertips digging in just so and easing the pressure building along his skull. "The electrician is coming next Tuesday between eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon. You good with that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mhm," Taeyong hums, melting under Johnny's touch. "You won't be here?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can try to take a longer lunch."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Taeyong sighs and pulls away, feeling Johnny's parting touch skim down the back of his neck. "No, it's fine, honey. I can manage."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You sure?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong leans his head on the back of their couch and looks up at Johnny. His hair is drying in dark waves, but clear droplets still cling to the slope of his chest and the cut of his abs. Taking a deep breath, Taeyong wets his lips. "I'm sure."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny smiles, thumb coming up to ghost a crescent underneath his right eye. "Still not sleeping, baby?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Not much," Taeyong says, and he hears the exhaustion coloring his tone this time, the slight slur in his words, the elongated linger on his tongue. "Not well."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Circling the couch, Johnny takes a seat, towel and all, and pulls Taeyong into his arms. Taeyong collapses, let's himself sink down into Johnny's embrace, the warmth of his smooth chest pressing into his cheek. "I'm home for the next few days. Just me and you, yeah?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah." Taeyong nuzzles closer and pecks tender kisses on the stretch of skin and curve of the collarbone before him. "Yeah," he repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house is dim, but for once, it's quiet. Taeyong basks in it, the quiet, the weight of Johnny's arms around his waist, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest against Taeyong's cheek. "I miss you," the words are a whisper offered to the space between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny's arms twitch, tightening as he brings Taeyong further into his lap. "I know, baby, I miss you too. I promise," Johnny says, layering a crown of kisses on Taeyong's head, "I promise things will calm down at work and I'll be home more often. And," Johnny traces the edge of Taeyong's jaw, brings the younger's gaze up to his own, "and I promise, I'll look into everything going on with the house. It's old, even with the recent updates, so this is probably a long time coming just to get a second opinion on everything."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong smiles tightly, trying to match the same ardency shining in Johnny's eyes. He settles further into Johnny's chest and wraps Johnny's arms more snugly around his waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's just an old house</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it's still settling just like us.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He repeats this mantra so it becomes an engraved pathway in his mind, a truth that sinks into his bones. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's just an old house.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The TV flickers, a glitch of color seizing on the screen before black and white lines take over. Johnny curses. Far off, thunder rumbles like an approaching beast. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It's just an old house and bad weather—nothing more.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Babe, have you seen my watch?" Johnny's voice pierces through the light layer of sleep creeping in on Taeyong. He's sleep warm and sex ruffled, deep, sated pleasure running molasses thick through his veins. "I swear I left it on my nightstand."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their mused sheets rustle when Taeyong rolls over to check their nightstands with bleary eyes. Both of the dark wooden bedside tables are a reflection of their owners: cough drops, a couple of small pictures from Seoul, a box of tissues, and a small terrarium of succulents on Taeyong's side. Johnny's nightstand is more of an organized mess. Amidst the tangle of chargers, Bluetooth speakers, and headphones sits a small clay bowl the two had made together earlier on in the relationship. Oddly enough, the clay bowl which usually holds Johnny's Rolex and a loose assortment of smaller accessories is absent said watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you check the bathroom?" Taeyong asks. A pillow swallows most of his words, but Johnny must understand him as he shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His movements are jerky. Johnny struggles to clasp his cufflinks as he paces their bedroom, frenetic eyes flicking from one thing to the next as if their armoire or standing lamp may be hiding the watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck," Johnny hisses upon catching the time on his phone, "Taeyong, can you stand up real quick? I just want to check if it somehow got tangled up with the sheets."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong stands wordlessly. The teasing remark of the watch gaining legs stilling on his tongue as he watches Johnny tear up their bed, pillows flung to the floor, duvet half slumped on the end of the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Baby...Johnny," Taeyong grabs Johnny's arm when the older man shows no signs of hearing him. "Johnny, calm down. It can't have walked away. You were so tired last night, you may have just misplaced it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"But I don't think—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Johnny," Taeyong interrupts, "You're going to be late if you don't leave soon. I'll look for your watch. I was going to clean the house anyway since I'm filming this week. We'll find it, it can't have just disappeared."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny takes a deep breath, broad chest expanding then shrinking in on itself. It's an unusual sight, seeing the larger man look so small. Yet, in typical Johnny fashion, he attempts a smile for Taeyong. The pinched lines of his face are lessened, but still visible. "You're right." Johnny takes another deep breath and straightens out his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height. "You're right. Sorry, baby, things have just been crazy at work and I feel like I'm just bringing it home with me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both know what he's referring to—</span>
  <span>the late nights, the forgetfulness (dinner dates, meeting the electrician, misplacing small items and important files taken home). It’s fine, Taeyong says, both to himself and the frequent apologies that have tumbled from Johnny’s lips in the near month they’ve been in New Orleans. It’s fine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it is</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Except, sometimes Taeyong can’t help missing his husband, and no matter how busy Johnny has been in the past, he’s never been this forgetful, this distracted. As disheartening as it is, though, dates can be reset and things found. After all, ever since moving, Taeyong has had to conduct a few scavenger hunts for his own misplaced belongings.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong summons a smile of his own and steps in Johnny's space. "I get it, but that's why I'm here." Taeyong runs a gentle hand along the nap of Johnny's neck, fingers weaving into the thick auburn strands. "I'm here to help," Taeyong squeezes Johnny's neck and uses his grip to pull the larger man down, "and here to help you unwind."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny hums, a deep rumble to rival the thunder that never seems to leave the New Orleans sky for too long. The sly smirk that curls the edges of Johnny's lips press a teasing imprint against the swollen pink of Taeyong's own. A shudder courses through him, a flash of heat and the tender soreness still clinging to his muscles serving as a memory of their early morning fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you," Johnny says. The sharp lines of his face are smooth, no hint of the former shadows that cut deep creases into the tan skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I love you, too." Taeyong steals one last kiss before delivering a quick slap to Johnny's ass. Ignoring his yelp. Taeyong shuffles them out of their bedroom. "Now go before I drag you back to bed and keep you there."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know," Johnny stops, using his weight to stop the progress to the front door. "That doesn't sound so bad."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Johnny," Taeyong huffs in mock exasperation. He pushes against Johnny to no avail. "You have a meeting with the engineers this morning and the client this afternoon."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I mean, that doesn't have to be my problem."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're the lead architect, it's definitely your problem. Look," Taeyong stops trying to get Johnny to budge and instead turns dark eyes up at him. "Be a good boy and go to work, finish the week strong, then we have all weekend together. You can have me, and maybe I'll have something special for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A surprise?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only for good boys," Taeyong says, voice dipping teasingly low.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be better than a fucking boy scout.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong giggles at the desperate earnestness in Johnny’s voice. Johnny, for all his intimidating stature and strong features, knows how to endear himself in the curled moue of his plush lips and the gentling of honeyed eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then start by getting to work on time,” Taeyong says. He places a quick peck on Johnny’s pouting lips, then aims a half-hearted kick in his direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Johnny sighs, but he’s smiling, eyes still gentle and fixed on Taeyong, even as he struggles to slip into his shoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door shuts with a muffled thump. Taeyong tries to ignore the empties that settled throughout the house—it’s a dense feeling, the air too heavy, and seemingly pulling his center of gravity down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air is oddly stale when Taeyong breathes it in. His exhale is forceful, a gusting sigh meant to push away the pressure weighing on his shoulders and chest. It’s a new habit he’s picked up, Johnny too, filling up spaces between sentences and silence with a deep breath in and out. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn’t. Today, the sigh does nothing to alleviate the weariness pulling at his bones; not even the October sunlight, for once streaming in from clear skies help break through the gray in the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Taeyong basks in the sunlight soaking into his skin. The moment is ruined by two things: the startling realization he’s stark naked and covered in drying come while their curtains are wide open to let in the rare sunlight and the stares of any passerby, and the muted clatter of something heavy falling in the bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong jumps. The warmth from the sunlight and his morning with Johnny slip from his skin, leaving Taeyong bereft and cold, acutely aware of the itch of drying bodily fluids on his stomach and between his thighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The noises happen when Johnny is home, but not as often as they do when Taeyong is alone. It’s developing into something Pavlovian, the creep of goosebumps pricking the fine surface of his skin, his breath locking in his lungs as he tries to locate the disturbance—this time something falling, next the memory of footsteps creaking on old floorboards, the day before a whisper that could be Taeyong’s subconscious or the wind or the feral cats that live in the open field between them and their neighbors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is little solace in reminding himself the doors and windows are locked, there’s greater solace in identifying exits and entries and household items easily repurposed as weapons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor nearly stings the bare soles of his feet, cold and creaking underneath his slow, weighted steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing,” he breathes out. Nothing answers him in return. Not a call of birds or a wail of the wind. The house is still and silent. Taeyong presses on, arms wrapping around himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their bedroom is a mess. The smell of sex still weighs heavy in the air, mixing with the rich and spicy scent of Johnny’s cologne. Clothes are discarded haphazardly, somehow Taeyong’s boxers have managed to get caught on a lampshade; the bed shows evidence of their early morning lovemaking and Johnny’s subsequent fit in his search for his watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rug that Mrs. Seo had given them as a housewarming gift is rumpled. Beside it, in a trail of jagged pieces of sepia and teal, is the ceramic bowl. Between the shards sit earrings, loose change, and the spare ring or two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crouching where he stands, Taeyong reaches out. His fingers tremble in the air just above a broken piece of pottery. He stills, fingertips a single twitch away from connecting with a jagged edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down the hall, metal scratches metal, the light screech of rungs as the curtains in their living room are pulled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arm snapping back, Taeyong’s muscle lock. He hunches over, spine pressing to skin, the rough weave of the rug digging checkered lines into his knees. He strains his ears, lungs heavy with held breath. The tinny screech of the metal rungs on the metal rod rings out once more, just two seconds of sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong is standing before his mind can conjure the thought to move. Their bedroom door slams close under his trembling body, fingers fumbling blindly for the thin silver lock. There is a snick and Taeyong backs away from the door. He stands naked in his torn up bedroom, skin tacky and tight against his bones. There is a tickle of cracked ceramic against his heel, one step back from a bad accident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>eek</span>
  </em>
  <span> that seeps beneath the locked door is faint.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Call Johnny. Get dressed and call Johnny.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wide eyes capture the room in flickers: table lamp; half-burned candle; glasses; rumpled duvet; picture frames with sharp corners. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Call Johnny. Call Johnny.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In the bathroom connected to their bedroom is a heavy bowl, made of real crystal and full of dried flowers and potpourri. It’s heavy. It’s smooth. Taeyong traces the rim, then he stares in the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is pale, more so than usual, bleached with dark eyes like black holes swallowing his face. His lips are chapped and swollen. Against the protruding bones of ribs and hips and clavicle, red and blue meet purple in imperfect circles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cannot recount the steps he took to get to the bathroom. He does not call Johnny. He starts the shower. Steam billows quickly, condensation licking at the edges of the mirror and blurring the slope of his thighs and the curve of his shoulders. Nothing can be heard over the pounding of the water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not the first time Taeyong is disproportionately grateful for the heavy water pressure of New Orleans. The water beats down hard, suffusing colors of incarnadine and honey back into his skin. The goosebumps melt away, and his eyes flutter closed, lashes clumping with water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is not the first time the curtains have moved on their own, and it will not be the last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong tries to think of what Johnny would say if he were here. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s just a draft, the air conditioning pushing too heavily from the vents. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d laugh, loud and amicable, and make a joke, probably about using the air-con this late in October.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Taeyong re-enters their bedroom, fully dressed in soft, worn cotton, the mess is still there. He cleans methodically, stripping the bed, righting the small paraphernalia knocked over in Johnny’s wake. When he takes their bedding to the laundry room, his heart stays in his throat, a tangible thing felt in rapid </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump-thump-thump</span>
  </em>
  <span> taps against the thin skin of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The weather is sunny and mild, pleasant outside the windows of Taeyong’s home. He sees the sun, but it does not leak past their window panes. Shadows cling to the crown molding, the air is heavy, and Taeyong is a walking dichotomy of goosebumps and damp sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Taeyong says, the words heavy on his tongue. “It’s fine.” He shoves the sheets in the washing machine. The sun smears between the pines in their backyard, a shadow grows behind Taeyong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their duvet fights him when he tries to shove it in the washer, suddenly too heavy in his arms. Heaving in a breath that doesn’t fully reach his lungs, Taeyong pushes, the bamboo sheets cool and tangled in his arms. He pushes. The air wisps over his skin like errant cobwebs, clings to the coating of his lungs. He pushes, and his lungs burn, too tight, too heavy. He pushes. The duvet gives and folds into the washing machine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The clean smell of detergent fills the room, and only then, as he pours the clear liquid into the laundry does he realize how stale the air had been before. With shaking arms, Taeyong sets a timed wash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong leaves their laundry room and its circle of windows where the sun doesn’t penetrate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t penetrate</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his mind supplies. The thought is a sharp hook in his gut, it sticks and digs in and it follows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, it’s fine,” Taeyong repeats. The words leave an acrid aftertaste on his tongue, but Taeyong says them again into the dimness in the hallway, accepting the bitterness as it clings to his taste buds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He means to check the living room, to dispel the swirl of fear that sits hunched and knotted in his guts. He wants to see their curtains, know they’re in a new place set by hands not his own or Johnny’s. He doesn’t know what it will prove because it won’t erase the roiling in his stomach, both too full and too empty at the knowledge of what will be there. Or, won’t be there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing is ever there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even so, Taeyong will check the curtains in the living room. Then he’ll check the locks on the doors and the latches on the windows, he’ll check his Wüsthof chef knives in the kitchen—counting all eight, and then he’ll recheck everything once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor creaks under his weight and Taeyong can’t tell if it’s due to old age or the fact that he’s trembling. He doesn’t dwell on the thought for long, lifting his head, he tries to still the quaking in his legs and hands, control the rabbiting pace of his heart. Watery sunlight washes into the hall from their living room. The light should be brighter. Taeyong steps towards the light either way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It comes from their bedroom again. More controlled than before, a quick clack of something weighted hitting wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong flicks his eyes down the hall, past the living room with its watery light, and to the vague cut into the wall that marks their room. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thumpthumpthump </span>
  </em>
  <span>rings in his ears. Copper spreads from lips to tongue and flavors thin gulps of air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crossroads between their living room and bedroom. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t go. Call Johnny. No phone. Call Johnny. Bat, there should be a bat. Too shaky, too frail. Don’t upset it. Go. Go. Go.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The pale reflection of what sunlight should be flickers at the edge of Taeyong’s mind, a small swell of light that flickers out when he pushes further into the dim of the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their bedroom is empty. There is no sign of disturbance and no sign of its previous mess save the shattered remains of their bowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing does nothing to clear the air. Taeyong’s knees hit the floor and he crawls to the broken bowl. The pottery is lighter than he remembers, it had felt so heavy in his hands as he and Johnny crafted it, fingers intertwined in the clay and Johnny pressed tight to his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taeyong sorts the bigger pieces into a teetering stack. The edges are jagged, but Taeyong can’t help running his thumb along the side of one, feeling the grit scratch opposing lines across the thin swirls of his skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to feel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly translucent cuts line the skin of his thumb. Taeyong finishes picking up the pieces and rises, mind on running a wet cloth over the floor to catch the tinier shards. His hands tighten around the bowl fragments. The sharp prick of pain is a dull ping of awareness in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the top of Johnny’s nightstand sits his Rolex in the empty spot where the bowl used to be. It burns a wicked silver under their fluorescent lights.</span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To: Papa Bear</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>October 12</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>11:08 a.m.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Found your watch.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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